A Log on the Fire and Burglars in the Basement
by RadioShack84
Summary: 'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the stacks, two burglars were lurking, but intelligence they lacked.


Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest or Home Alone. Written for enjoyment, not money.

* * *

"Mr. Reese," Finch gasped, "I believe I owe you...a raise. It seems I've grossly underestimated...the toll this work takes on you." He stumbled, and would've fallen, but John's strong grip on his upper arm held fast until he'd steadied himself. They kept on, sloshing through knee-deep water, the cursing and whining and splashing growing fainter in their wake.

"Right now I'd be satisfied with a towel and a good night's sleep."

"And some peace and quiet."

"Why do you think we're leaving them down here for the night?"

"The papers did fail to mention just how annoying they are," Finch agreed. "Perhaps if they had included such a pertinent factor in their description the police would have captured them sooner." He paused at the bottom of the staircase to catch his breath and looked forlornly upward. When Reese didn't answer, he glanced sideways to find the other man wearing a similarly-morose expression, augmented by the blood streaking the side of his face, courtesy of a jagged cut above his right eye. The shorter of the two men now secured in the room behind them had only been able to land one blow against John, but it had caused a bit of damage due to the ring he'd been wearing. "Shall we?" Finch asked.

Reese just nodded tiredly and again offered his arm to Finch for support as they began the climb. Their clothing slurped and slogged as the water from the flooded basement reluctantly released its hold on the saturated fabric, and the two men shivered in tandem in the inadequately-heated stairwell.

"What in heaven's name was that idiot trying to do to the pipes, anyway?" Harold asked irritably, breaking the silence. "It's not as though they're made of copper or any sort of valuable material that they would want to steal, and their M.O. indicates that they only flooded properties that they successfully burglarized."

John made a face. "You're talking about the same guy who tried to convince me that he was a rabbi by showing me a crucifix, Harold. I don't think he's exactly a candidate for Mensa."

"His partner, either. I can't believe he thought he could get past Bear by throwing him a half-eaten pastrami sandwich."

"If he'd have tried a first-edition Dickens, he might've gotten lucky."

Finch chuckled, and then winced as his leg nearly gave way on the next step. His grip automatically tightened on Reese's arm, wringing a few droplets of water from the sleeve of John's soggy jacket and earning him a worried look from the man himself. "It would seem that ice baths and sparring matches with thieves are not all that conducive to my well-being, Mr. Reese," he said by way of explanation, and took a moment to knead his spasming thigh muscle before straightening and nodding that he was ready to keep moving.

They reached the second floor without further incident, and Bear came bounding up to them, apparently having heeded Reese's command to 'go home' after he'd successfully aided in subduing the more dangerous of the two men. While John stooped to greet the dog, Finch went to retrieve some towels. He handed one to Reese and limped to his computer station, draping his own sopping jacket across the back of a chair. "Join me in the classical fiction after you've changed," he called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

* * *

John's curiosity built as he made his way through the stacks, Bear trailing close behind him. He'd exchanged his soaking wet suit for jeans and a sweater and felt marginally more human for the effort, but the events of the past four days were starting to catch up with him. They'd finished with their latest number that afternoon, but it had been a grueling investigation and John had gotten little in the way of sleep during that time, and only an hour or so more this evening before Harold had called him back in a near-panic, saying there were intruders in the library. Two small-time burglars, as it turned out, looking for a place to lay low after escaping from prison, but that hadn't made them easy to capture. An hour and a half of laying traps, chasing, and scuffling in three feet of cold water later, and Reese was ready to crash. He knew Finch knew it, too, so he couldn't figure out what was so important that it couldn't wait until morning to be addressed. If it was another number, surely Finch would have just said so.

As he rounded the row of shelving that separated the science fiction from the classical, John felt something warm slowly trickling down the side of his face and he raised the washcloth he was carrying, dabbing at his still-bleeding eyebrow in annoyance. "Hey, Harold, have you seen the first aid kit? I couldn't find it in the...bathroom," he trailed off, taking in the scene before him in surprise.

What had once been just another small library alcove of tables and chairs was now outfitted with two rustic-looking recliners, end tables, reading lamps, a brightly-colored Persian rug, and an electric fireplace in the corner. Finch's grin was only dampened slightly by the sight of the blood-stained cloth in Reese's hand, and he nodded in response to the question. "I had a bit of a mishap earlier myself while I was assembling everything," he said, pushing up the sleeve of his shirt part way to reveal a large band-aid on his wrist, before he gestured eagerly to one of the recliners. "See what you think. I'll get it for you."

Reese had to admit that the chairs looked awfully inviting. He sat down, sinking deep into the super-plush upholstery.

"Wonderful, isn't it? The people of an Amish village upstate handcraft these, from the fabric to the frame. They're quite difficult to come by."

"I'm sure," Reese said with a knowing smirk, reaching for the kit.

Finch let him take it, but switched on the lamp beside the chair and peered closely at the laceration. "That looks deep, John."

"I'll stitch it in the morning if I need to, but steri-strips should hold it for tonight," he said with a yawn as he started fumbling through the kit.

"Is this what you're after?" Finch held up the box of bandages after Reese had passed over it for the third time.

John nodded sheepishly, and leaned back in the chair with a resigned sigh when Harold didn't give it to him, but set the box aside on the table and held out his hand for the antiseptic. "How did you know that Rube Goldberg-ing the third floor would route those guys to the basement, anyway?" Reese asked, trying not to wince as Harold carefully cleaned the blood away from the cut. "They could have gone any number of directions with the layout of this place."

"While I was waiting for you to arrive earlier, I read through the police reports surrounding their two most recent arrests-both of which were attributed to the efforts of a rather ingenious young boy. After studying those accounts, it became clear that our two intruders didn't have much regard for obstacles or potential dangers when it came to a path of escape, but rather would just choose the one which, on the surface, seemed to be the one of least resistance. That being the case, I just made an educated guess and we rigged the space accordingly. Once they'd made their choice, it wasn't difficult to goad them into staying the course, and Bear picked up the slack nicely where my assumptions didn't quite go according to plan."

As though he were following the conversation, Bear lifted his head from his paws and wagged his tail. Reese smiled at the dog's satisfied expression, then cringed as Harold gently pressed one of the tiny strips into place on his eyebrow, drawing the edges of the laceration together. It took three more before Finch declared the wound sufficiently closed and started to gather up the supplies, only to drop them all on the floor when a loud shriek issued from his pocket, startling him badly.

John looked at Finch in minor alarm. "Maybe leaving them down there wasn't such a good idea after all." He began to rise, but Harold stopped him with a shake of his head.

"They're fine, aside from Harry trying to strangle Marv for the umpteenth time," Finch answered, as another burst of screaming and cursing issued from his phone speaker.

"I thought you disabled the audio from the basement surveillance feeds."

"I did. The system must have malfunctioned due to water damage. Luckily, I can still disable it here." With the press of a button, the noise abruptly cut off. Finch slid the phone back into his pocket and finished cleaning up, then stiffly lowered himself into the other chair, flipping the lever to raise the footrest.

"How's the leg?" Reese asked, following suit.

"Not great," Finch admitted, "but it's better now that we're out of that freezing water. Speaking of which..." he picked up a remote control from the side table and pointed it at the fireplace. Within a few seconds, the blaze increased, casting flickering light and warmth in their direction.

"Nice!" Reese grinned.

Finch smiled back, and was pleased to see John relax further as the slight shivering that had lingered with him since the basement finally subsided. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Reese."

"Thanks, Harold. Merry Christmas."

The two men lapsed into comfortable silence, Bear settled himself on the rug between them, and all three soon drifted off to sleep to the sound of the crackling fire.


End file.
